


Fragments of You

by communikate



Series: scattered in pigments and lost words [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Keith (Voltron), Artist/Writer - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Writer Lance (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 13:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/communikate/pseuds/communikate
Summary: “You feel it too?” Lance whispered.“Feel what?” Keith mumbled, arms crossing his chest and head lolling back against the wall.Lance’s smile was all bitterness. “The jealousy and hopelessness.” He shrugged, fingers curling against the windowsill and features darkening. “I’m happy for them, but I can’t help but think that maybe searching every single weekend for all these years is kind of pointless for someone like me, you know?”Keith sighed, “What I don’t understand is how they can be so sure.”Lance’s narrowed gaze darted to Keith’s face, slowly analyzing his features. “I mean the proof is all there,” Lance mumbled, motioning to the happy couple nestled between statues.“The proof’s been wrong before,” Keith muttered.~~~~In a world where soulmates are depicted in people's passions, Keith feels like the only person that has stopped painting, stopped searching for his destined partner. But he's been wrong before, and he'll be damned if he's wrong again.





	Fragments of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyrikin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrikin/gifts).



> Hi Lyri!! I hope you like this! It was a little more angsty than I hoped, but you know me haha I kind of tried to combine all of your prompts and this is what came of it: something longer and angstier than I expected haha
> 
> I hope you enjoy (♡°▽°♡)

Keith sighed deeply, glancing up from his phone as Shiro opened the bathroom door, straightening his tie with a worried scowl on his face.

“What about --”

“Shiro,” Keith exhaled, cutting off his best friend with a soft glare, “I doubt your soulmate will care what you wear tonight.” Huffing a chuckle through his nose, Keith rose from the couch at Shiro’s indignant glare.

Rubbing a hand through his hair, Shiro slumped in one of the armchairs, elbows digging into his knees and fingers massaging his temples. “I know. I know,” his voice was a mere whisper by the end of his sentence, like he’d exhaled the last of his oxygen. “I just can’t,” but he didn’t finish the thought, squeezing his eyes closed and burrowing his fingers into his hair.

Placing a delicate hand on Shiro’s shoulder, Keith caught the pure panic that glinted in his friend’s gaze. Empathy, so familiar and burning in his lungs, ignited in his veins as he pulled Shiro up from the chair.

Keith stepped back and hummed softly to himself while glancing over his best friend’s sixth outfit with a critical eye. “I definitely think the white dress shirt with this tie is perfect,” he announced plucking at the cloth haphazardly tied around Shiro’s neck.

“You don’t think it’s too,” he examined the colorful tie with confusion, “gaudy?”

Keith wanted to say he thought the first outfit was fine. So was the second and the third and every article of clothing he tried on, because Shiro could make anything look good. Instead, he smiled warmly and clapped Shiro on the shoulder. “You look perfect. Now get ready before we’re late,” he grunted as he pushed Shiro off towards the bathroom to change, hopefully for the last time.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


The art gala was huge, ornate, and decorated with moldings and pillars, all hand-carved from marble back before society knew about the expression of soulmates. Keith could see the subtle tilt of a woman’s neck and the bounce of her hair in the moldings; whereas the pillars were carved like a man’s broad shoulders with strength like ropes of corded muscle.

Society was slow to realize that these weren’t just muses that famous artists and writers were detailing; it was the soft expression of soulmates, that somehow through passions, pieces of our hearts were left, scattered in pigments and lost words, in perfect descriptions of our fated loved ones.

It was easy to see the expression through art, the way Shiro had sculpted the gentle curve of a woman’s cheek and her caring, dimpled smile in every bust he’d ever created.

But other passions were more tricky -- mathematicians finding that they spelled out their soulmates name in variables after a series of equations, travel agents finding themselves recommending a specific area to all of their clients, florists capturing personality trait after trait in bouquets, or actors accidently calling out the wrong name while on set. The universe worked in mysterious ways, choosing to leave little traces of one’s soulmate lingering amongst their work.

It wasn’t ever that easy though -- nothing was that easy.

Keith shivered in the chilled air of the art gala, compensating for the large groups of people that would soon walk through the various art pieces, so desperate to see themselves depicted.

The owner of the building walked briskly down the stairs, fiddling with his pocket watch and straightening his cumberbun over his pronouced stomach. “Ah, Mr. Shirogane,” he coughed, wrinkled face pulling into a warbled smile, “unfortunately we had to move your collection to the upstairs exhibit. Another artist brought canvases that weren’t able to fit up the stairs, so we had to accommodate last minute.”

He came to a stop just in front of them and standing shorter than Keith by several inches. His hair was a wild mess of grey curls, and he smiled widely under a waxed and styled mustache.

“That’s fine, Mr. Wimbleton. I’m just grateful to have my pieces displayed in your gala,” Shiro smiled warmly, shaking Mr. Wimbleton’s extended hand.

Pulling at his suit jacket, the owner straightened his shoulders, glowing with pride. “Yes, it’s not often that we get a new collection quite like yours, Mr. Shirogane. Should I have Ethel show you to your collection or --”

“We can find it ourselves, I’m sure,” Keith cut him off, already feeling anxiety rolling off Shiro’s shoulders. Nodding a thank you, Keith stepped around Mr. Wimbleton and walked up the wide, curved stairs, hearing Shiro’s footsteps behind him.

Shiro’s collection of seven busts and one large carved statute of the Goddess Aphrodite stood in a secluded room of the gala, wide windows showing the setting sun coloring the horizon.

Keith huffed a sigh, sitting on the edge of the windowsill and watching Shiro carefully position and dust off his sculptures.

“First time?” a sweet voice called out. Keith’s gaze darted up to see a woman walking through the threshold to the room. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun and several strands fell around her face, framing her wide eyes and scowling lips.

“Yeah,” Shiro responded, a nervous chuckle spilling from his lips as he scratched the back of his neck. “You could tell?”

The girl snorted, pulling out a cigarette and walking to the window opposite Keith’s perch and yanking it open. “It’s as plain as day, sugar.” She inhaled deeply, lighting the end of her cigarette and exhaling a puff of smoke. “Mr. Wimbleton’s a romantic for allowing all of us to stay until we find our soulmates, so it’s pretty easy to spot a newbie.” Her smile was bittersweet as she leaned against the carved window molding, “I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you,” Shiro stood tall, before walking across the room and offering a handshake, “Shiro. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nyma,” she took his hand, holding her cigarette between her lips.

“How long have you been here?” Keith asked from across the room, fingers tapping nervously against his hips, thumbs digging deep into his pockets.

Exhaling a ploom of smoke out the open window, Nyma met Keith’s gaze, “Almost ten months.”

His heart stilled in his chest at the information, fingers clenching into fists at his hips. Shiro stiffened at Nyma’s side, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

Ten months? Waiting every weekend in bright, almost-unbridled anxiety to find her soulmate. Keith could still see the remnants of that hope painted on her lips and patterning the end of her cigarette with red lipstick.

_Ten months was almost as long as --_

But Keith cut off that train of thought before it could bloom, forbidding himself to fall into that spiral of emotions on the night of Shiro’s premier.

“Oh,” Keith breathed, chest tight and jaw clenched, but Nyma’s half-hearted shrug made some of the guilt lessen.

“It’s alright.” She sighed, propping herself against the window as she put her cigarette out on the heel of her boot before tossing it in the trash can. “The lucky bastard,” she grunted as she forced the window closed again, “who was here before you found his soulmate on the first goddamn night.” Huffing a sigh, she relaxed against the wall, arms crossed as her eyes roamed over her bronze statues and the familiar eyes that glinted back, “It was romantic though.”

Before Keith could comment or at least apologize for prying, Mr. Wimbleton’s voice boomed through the speakers on the ceiling, “Good evening, everyone! The exhibit is now open. Good luck to all!”

Nyma shot Shiro a wry look before slumping into a comfortable chair nestled between her statues, eyes lingering on the sunset colored beams of light that reflected on the window.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Some people lingered in the doorway, peering in at the art for only a moment before turning around to search elsewhere, eyes critical and gaze harsh.

Shiro tapped his foot against the floor, sweat beading on his forehead as he kept glancing towards the door at every sound of footsteps. Nyma leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone and biting her nails. But Keith noticed how her body stiffened with anticipation every time someone entered the room.

The first person was a woman in her late twenties, chestnut hair twirled back in an elegant bun making her cheekbones all the more harsh. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she tapped her nervous fingers along the clasp of her purse. Her eyes lingered on the smile of Shiro’s busts, one hand raising to her chin as if considering her own grin.

Clearing his throat, Shiro stepped forward with a wide grin and anticipation strumming in his clenched fists. “Hello --”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning her back on them and striding out the door.

A choked sound burned in the back of Shiro’s throat as he cast a glance at Keith and Nyma, who merely shrugged. “Typical,” she breathed as if that was any explanation for the woman’s actions.

There were several more encounters that were more friendly with strained smiles and disappointment heavy in the air. Keith could see the way the constant stress and anticipation weighed on Shiro’s shoulders, pulling the edges of his lips into a frown.

With a soft groan, Keith stretched from his perch on the windowsill.

“I’m gonna get something to drink. Want anything?”

“A martini, dry,” Nyma answered without looking up from her phone, a sly smile on her face.

Chuckling under his breath, Shiro cracked his knuckles and met Keith’s gaze with an openness he wasn’t expecting to see here. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

“Sure, but you’re gonna regret that tomorrow, old timer,” Keith chuckled, waving to them over his shoulder and striding out of the room.

The small amount of people that had filtered into their room was nothing compared to the people roaming the hallways, pamphlets crinkled or rolled in sweaty hands. He squeezed between warm bodies as he descended the stairs, smelling the rolling bitterness of too many mixed perfumes.

The bar was the least crowded area of the art gala, which honestly surprised Keith. He’d offered Shiro a drink before they’d even left his apartment earlier that night, knowing that if he was the one displaying his work and trying to find his soulmate, he’d want a little libation to help him along. But Shiro had refused, wanting to stay perfectly sober when he met his soulmate.

He guessed all the disappointment was changing his tune.

Tapping on the smooth wood of the bar, Keith drew the attention of the bartender with his extended credit card.

“What can I get you tonight?” the bartender smiled broadly, shining a glass with practiced hands. He wore a orange headband that tied back his bangs and a name tag that read, ‘Hunk.’

“Whiskey on the rocks and a dry martini,” Keith sighed, debating on what he should get for himself. “And a shot of Jack Daniels Fire if you’ve got it.”

The bartender nodded, filling a metal shaker with ice and beginning to make the drinks.

Suddenly the shot was in front of him, sides of the glass slick with overflowing alcohol. Glancing up, Keith caught the Hunk’s smile as he strained the martini into a glass and topped it off with an olive.

Keith tipped his head back and took the shot, slamming the glass back to the table as a small shiver of revulsion crawled up his spine.

“Bad night?” an unfamiliar voice asked, warm and jovial in the heat of the building.

Keith huffed a harsh laugh. “Yeah, and it’s barely started.” Turning to see the man who’d walked up to the bar beside him: warm, tanned skin peaked out from underneath a starched, blue dress shirt as a paisley tie hung loosely around his neck. And his smile was so hauntingly familiar that it made Keith’s heart flutter.

His eyes were a vivid blue, cerulean or azure or the pure essence of sapphires, and Keith could almost see himself analyzing which pigment to pick and strike the canvas with.

Breath stilled in his chest as he watched the man next to him relax against the bar with a sigh.

“What can I get you tonight, Lance?” Hunk asked after sliding Keith both of his drinks. But Lance only groaned in response, closing his eyes and burying his face into his hands. “The usual then?” Hunk chuckled as he reached down filling the shaker with ice.

Tilting his head to the side Lance caught Keith’s gaze, making his leather jacket feel too warm for this air conditioned space. “Is this your first time here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Lance asked, brow furrowing in contemplation.

“Yeah,” Keith rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the heat from the shot crawl up his throat and dance in his cheekbones, “my best friend’s collection is upstairs, so I’m here for moral support.”

Lance’s gaze dropped to the two drinks by Keith’s side, a bitter smile curling his lips. “The first night’s the hardest, or so I’ve been told.” He shrugged, eyes turning to Hunk as he slid a drink along the bar, condensation already gathering around the glass. “The name’s Lance,” he extended a hand, the other wrapped around his drink and bringing it to his curling lips.

“Keith,” he answered, almost flinching at the warmth of Lance’s hand or the way his fingers curved so confidently around his.

There was an accented silence between them, almost audible over the din of the crowd and the soft music playing from the speakers. Lance traced a finger over the rim of his cup, eyes lost to thoughts Keith couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Well, I better get back,” Keith mumbled, picking up the drinks and nodding to Lance.

“What room?” Lance asked, turning quickly on his heel as if to catch Keith before he wandered off into the large crowd.

Keith stuttered to a stop, familiar with the forced smile on Lance’s features and the soft blush that dusted his tanned cheeks. “Uh, it’s the one upstairs on the left I think.”

“Gotcha,” he nodded before his gaze cast to the ground. “Nice to meet you, Keith.”

“You too,” Keith finished, lungs fluttering and stomach dropping as he turned and strode back up the stairs.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


The room was surprisingly quieter than he’d expected. Shiro leaned against the window, eyes a little wide as his left hand rubbed the sem where his prosthetic met flesh. The chair Nyma had been perched in was startlingly empty.

“Where’d she go?” Keith asked, handing Shiro his whiskey on the rocks.

His gaze jumped from the floor and captured Keith’s in a glinting fantasy of romance and hope. “She met her soulmate,” his voice was breathy like he was still amazed by the scene he’d witnessed. “Keith, he just walked in and she knew. Jumped from her seat and kissed him. It was,” and he exhaled, a wistful tilt to his lips, “beautiful.”

“How could she be so confident?” Keith mumbled before bringing Nyma’s martini to his lips and chugging the whole thing in a cringing gulp. Shuttering he pulled the glass away from his mouth, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand and avoiding Shiro’s pitying gaze.

“Keith,” Shiro stepped forward, reaching out to touch Keith’s shoulder, as if to steady him or stop him from running away.

Taking a step backward, Keith grimaced a smile, “Sorry, I’m not great moral support tonight. I -- I’m going to run to the bathroom.” Placing the glass down on the windowsill, Keith turned and strode from the room, brushing past Lance and ignoring his compelling conversation starter.

He pulled the bathroom door closed and slumped against the sink, fingers digging to the elegant porcelain. Swallowing harshly, he fought the bile that rose in his throat and the memories that bubbled with it. With trembling hands, he splashed cold water against his face, desperate for something to stop the capsizing memories from devouring him.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


He’d met Blake his second year of college when his arms were splattered in paint and his hair was pulled into a ponytail.

And Blake was like an apparition of the thoughts and desires he’d scribbled onto canvas after canvas. Glancing up from his work, he watched as Blake strode into the classroom, eyes like sapphires and smile like sunshine.

His paintbrush clattered to the floor as he stood up, drawing Blake’s attention from the professor that he’d come to meet.

There was recognition on his features too, mirroring Keith’s own.

Sparks ignited between them, and that was how Keith knew it was real, knew that the person he’d been promised, the comfort and companionship he’d longed for in the ever changing beds of his childhood foster homes, had come to fruition.

Blake was everything Keith had imagined: funny and talented and almost woefully perfect.

He was the person that Keith always painted, and Blake played him songs that described Keith to a T, from his indigo eyes and long black hair and scowling smile.

Without hesitation, Keith opened himself up, bared himself to his soulmate. Laid in bed late at night and traced patterns onto Blake’s skin as he told stories of his foster parents and the house fire that took his dad’s life -- told him things he hadn’t even dared tell Shiro, the painful, earth-shattering moments that shaped his past. And every story was met with love and acceptance, and that was all Keith ever needed.

He was so cocooned in his first loving embrace, it took almost too long to notice how Blake closed his laptop when Keith entered a room. Or how he would hide his newest songs, playing the same ones over and over, the ones that described him a little too loosely to be accurate.

But Keith was so blissfully in love that it all seemed inconsequential.

Even when he saw the small discrepancies in the smiles he painted, he simply hid his finished canvases behind paint stained clothes and swore to only paint landscapes.

And yet, every landscape seemed to be of the sea, sand that glittered in the sunlight and cresting waves, a shade too light to match Blake’s eyes. But Blake had grown up in Tennessee, far removed from the beach, skin tanned from working outside and skateboarding in the harsh southern sun.

So ten months passed with little incident.

Until Blake walked in on him painting another seascape, surfers riding the foaming waves and bright red umbrellas dotting the shoreline.

“Keith,” Blake mumbled, standing behind him and taking in the exquisitely rendered beach scene. He hummed in response, fingers twisting around the brush to press in the last of the bubbling seafoam. “Why do you always paint the sea?”

He stiffened at the tone of Blake’s voice, quiet and pleading with Keith, but he merely shrugged as he squirted more white paint on his palette. “It’s pretty, I guess.”

“We both know that’s not why,” Blake sighed, and Keith couldn’t fight the urge to turn on his stool and look at the expression coloring his soulmate’s features. His brow was furrowed and pain seemed to sink into the lines of his face. “I’ve never even been to the beach, Keith.”

“So?” Keith snapped, standing harshly, hackles raising in defensiveness.

Blake’s gaze darted to Keith, eyes wide and surprised. “Keith --”

“No, I know what you’re getting at, Blake,” Keith swallowed, curling his hand tighter against the wood of his palette, “but these paintings mean nothing. It’s not like,” and he couldn’t even finish the thought, dread overcoming him in a lightheaded wave.

“I found them,” Blake admitted gaze dropping to the floor as blush dusted his cheeks. There was a look of vulnerability that Keith had never seen before -- not during their late nights under the stars, legs intertwining and soft stories of childhood dreams spinning between them.

With deliberate motions, Keith set his palette on the stool behind him, as if gathering the strength to ask the next question.

His fingers curled against the seat as he exhaled, “Found who?”

“My soulmate.”

And there was the shatter of glass within him, everything imploding all at once at the snap of a finger and the curl of a bitter smile. Spinning slowly, he turned to see determination on Blake’s features, a realization that had never happened between them.

But Keith had been so sure. All the paintings, all the songs, all the love.

His mind whispered that there were songs Blake never shared or the small differences in the smiles and the blue of his eyes. And then there were the countless paintings of the sea, the curling waves and coral and a blue that glistened in the sunlight, so different from the gaze he was used to.

“What?” Keith choked out.

Blake stood a little taller, shoulders straight and jaw tight as he continued. “I found my soulmate, Keith. And even though I love you, I have to --”

“So you’re saying all of this was wrong?” Keith growled out before Blake could even finish. His heart pounded in his ears, and he swayed on his feet, limbs weak and chest tightening.

“Of course not!” Blake shouted, fists curling at his sides.

Keith kept talking, listing out reasons and shouting every scrap of evidence of their bond at Blake. He slammed his painting of the beach to the ground, wet paint staining his fingertips. But Blake just turned away, marching towards the door with a tremble to his shoulders.

“You bastard!” Keith yelled, throwing a paint tube at Blake’s back, tears blurring his vision.

Blake turned to face him, a look of sickening determination carved into the planes of his face that Keith knew so well. But all of that faded away when he steadied himself, and tore Keith’s heart in half. “I knew you were never my soulmate.”

He didn’t hear the door close, hand pressed against his mouth as if to hold in the sobs and howls of pain his body wranged out of him, drawing lines of paint across his cheeks.

After three months, Blake had appeared at his door, pushing his way through even when Keith tried to slam the door back in his face. Guilt had etched itself into his features, but Keith refused to look, wounds still too fresh and heart barely mended.

Even after all the explanations -- how Blake had found them, how he was so convinced Keith was his soulmate until he’d seen them and all of his songs made sense, how he was so sorry for hurting Keith the way he did, how nothing between them was a lie, and how everything he’d said that day was only to make the separation easier for Keith.

Keith just smiled and accepted his apologies. But Blake had been wrong, none of that had been easy, and Keith knew it would never be so easy again.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Gripping to the edges of the sink, the tremble finally left Keith’s fingers and steadiness returned to his heart. Slumping back against the bathroom wall, Keith closed his eyes and listened to the soft music from the gala speakers and the muffled conversation of the crowd walking down the hallway outside.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, probably a message from Shiro.

**Shiro (7:38pm)**  
_So I met Lance_  
_He’s a writer_  
_Is he the reason you left? I mean he does look startlingly like *him*_

Keith’s hands tightened on his phone, fighting the way his mind conjured Blake’s face so clearly in his mind. But they were different. Blake had a strong masculine jawline, determined chin and a smile almost too wide for his face. Eyes a little close, hooded by bushy, low-set eyebrows. Everything about him screamed masculinity and a gruffness Keith found irresistibly sexy four years ago.

But with Lance, everything was elegant -- the gentle sweep of his nose, his high cheekbones and arched eyebrows.

Their coloring was similar, but that was where Keith drew the line.

**Keith (7:40PM)**  
_Check your glasses, old man_  
_They look nothing alike_

He took a steadying breath, checking his appearance in the mirror. Ignoring the wildness to his hair and the dark circles under his eyes, he looked presentable, despite his skin looking even paler than normal.

**Keith (7:42PM)**  
_Be back in a minute_  
_The line for the bathroom was really long_

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


When Keith got back to the room, Shiro was talking with Lance who was casually leaning against the windowsill with his arms crossed.

“Keith,” Lance smiled as soon as he caught sight of Keith walking through the door. Ignoring Shiro’s worried gaze in favor of Lance’s vibrant grin, Keith watched as Lance squatted next to one of the busts. “I’m pretty sure I’m Shiro’s soulmate, I mean just look at the similarities in our hair.”

The bust had curly hair that danced along her collar bones, smiling wide with eyes almost glowing.

“Oh yeah,” Keith drawled, fighting back the spark of hurt that ignited along his sternum at the fleeting thoughts of Blake, “nearly identical. Especially the dimples.”

Lance laughed, standing tall and rolling out one of his shoulders.

They ended up talking until the exhibit closed at 8pm, and Keith ignored the imploring glances Shiro kept sending him.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


**Shiro (5:03PM)**  
_Hey Keith_

**Keith (5:04PM)**  
_I swear to God Shiro that if you found your soulmate the one weekend I can’t come to the gala with you, I’m going to kill you_

**Shiro (5:06PM)**  
_I wish_  
_But Lance says that he thinks his friend might be my soulmate_  
_She’s out of town, but they normally walk through the gala together_  
_She’ll be back next weekend_

**Keith (5:10PM)**  
_If I had plans I would cancel them just so I could come_  
_But I was coming already_

**Keith (5:12PM)**  
_That’s really exciting though_  
_But I wouldn’t get your hopes up, you know??_

**Shiro (5:25PM)**  
_I promise I won’t, Keith_  
_You don’t need to worry about me_

Keith huffed at that text, shaking his head and forcing his phone back in his pocket without dignifying that statement with a response.

Shiro was the soldier who almost didn’t come home. He was the one that helped everyone through hard times but was unable to ask for help when he needed it most. Keith had to force Shiro to let him help when he’d returned from his tour overseas, sneaking around and syncing their calendars so he could randomly show up when Shiro might need him.

Don’t worry about him?

Keith merely rolled his eyes and focused on the fanart commision he was drawing. But he’d barely made any progress and it was just a rough sketch of a popular energetic character, hip cocked and gun poised. And of course, every time he was in the zone, another customer would stop at his booth in the artist alley at the local anime convention.

He wasn’t ungrateful for the attention, sales and commissions allowed him to work part-time as an artist. But he should have known better than to expect to get work done here.

**Shiro (5:32PM)**  
_Oh also, Lance asked about you ;)_

**Keith (5:33PM)**  
_Shut up, Shiro!_

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Shiro’s fingers tapped anxiously against his thighs as they stood in the same corner of the gala that they had the past three weeks. Same green walls and carved moldings, but now another artist was sitting across from them in the same wingback chair, surrounded by 3D sculptures made with parts of dolls. Vorok had been even more unwelcoming than Nyma.

But Lance’s friend was supposedly back in town from her business trip abroad, and Keith could feel the anxiety roll off Shiro in waves. Lance had texted Shiro all about her, because apparently they were close friends now. Keith went away for one weekend, and suddenly the boy who looked too much like sour memories was his best friend’s newest friend. Awesome.

Shiro jumped at the sound of the speaker crackling to life with the sound of Mr. Wimbleton’s familiar voice. “Good evening, everyone! The exhibit is now open. Good luck to all!”

Wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs, Shiro mumbled incoherently to himself under his breath.

“Shiro,” Keith sighed, drawing his attention, “you look wonderful. Anyone would be lucky to have a soulmate like you.” He smiled genuinely before he was interrupted by a soft gasp.

A woman with bronzed skin and hair the color of starlight stood in the threshold of the room, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. Keith could barely see Lance standing behind her, phone raised to record this moment.

Shiro stiffened at his side, eyes tracing the gentle curve of Allura’s neck and the curls that gently brushed her collarbones and the smile that dimpled her cheeks. Even Keith could see that she was the one Shiro had sculpted time after time.

He took a tentative step forward, jaw dropping and eyes wide. Reaching out a hand to sweep the hair off Allura’s shoulder, his fingertips brushed delicately along her jaw.

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he whispered reverently.

She leaned into his touch, eyes slowly closing only to pop back open like she couldn’t believe this was happening.

“It was like everything in my life was pointing me to you,” she breathed. “All those business trips to Japan, and all of my investors kept sending me emails with the name Takashi as an accidental misspelling. And my grandfather owning the gala, it just” and she shuttered a sigh, one hand coming to rest on Shiro’s extended arm, fingers tracing a soft pattern against the tender skin of his inner wrist, “it still feels like a miracle that I’ve met you.”

Shiro smiled warmly, placing his prosthetic arm against her hip and drawing her against him for a blinding kiss -- one so chaste but somehow so intimate Keith had to look away.

A sniffle next to him drew his attention. Lance was holding up the phone, but it trembled in his fingers as he used one hand to wipe at the tears caressing his cheeks. With a soft sigh, Keith took the phone from Lance’s hands, zooming in to capture the lovestruck look on both Shiro and Allura’s faces before ending the video and setting the phone on the windowsill.

“Do you think I’ll be the best man?” Lance sniffled, a wet laugh sounded in his throat as he smiled wide. “I mean like, I knew it, so it’s only fair right?”

“You’ll have to fight me for the title,” Keith joked, playfully bumping his shoulder against Lance’s before his gaze caught sight of Shiro and Allura.

He hated how his stomach rolled and his hands clenched at his sides at the sight of soulmates finding each other so naturally. Nostalgia purred in his mind, promising that things were better as they once were, when he lived in blissful ignorance.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Keith spent the rest of the night hanging out with Lance as Allura and Shiro began to learn more about each other, soft smiles and muffled laughter.

Lance’s feet dangled above the floor as he sat on the windowsill, back pressed against the glass panes.

Keith couldn’t fight a flinch as he watched Shiro’s thumb brush over the back of Allura’s hand; they were already so comfortable with each other, so open and willing that Keith couldn’t help but see his own blind stupidity in their actions.

“You feel it too?” Lance whispered, face an emotionless mask that Keith wasn’t expecting to see painting his features. Every time that Keith had seen Lance he’d always been bright and exuberant, no matter what emotions he was feeling. So to see this mask sculpted to hide his feelings was startling.

“Feel what?” Keith mumbled, arms crossing his chest and head lolling back against the wall.

Lance’s smile was all bitterness. “The jealousy and hopelessness.” He shrugged, fingers curling against the windowsill and features darkening. “I’m happy for them, but I can’t help but think that maybe searching every single weekend for all these years is kind of pointless for someone like me, you know?”

Keith paused a moment, taking in the curl to Lance’s lips and the furrow to his brow.

Shaking his head his gaze darted back to the happy couple. “I guess,” Keith sighed. “What I don’t understand is how they can be so sure.”

Lance’s narrowed gaze darted to Keith’s face, slowly analyzing his features. “I mean the proof is all there,” Lance mumbled, motioning to the happy couple nestled between statues that embodied all different parts of Allura.

“The proof’s been wrong before,” Keith muttered, fingers digging deeper into his biceps.

Lance parted his lips as if to speak, but Allura cut him off, jumping up from her seat and walking over to them. “Keith!” Her smile was wide and jovial, blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m sure that I can convince Pop-pop Wimbleton to allow you take over Shiro’s spot, since he won’t be needing it anymore.” She giggled, twining her fingers with Shiro and gazing up at him with a blissful kind of love that Keith remembered painting his own face.

“It’s okay,” Keith stood straight, pulling his car keys from his pocket. “I don’t have any art to display anyway.” He’d sold every last piece within a few weeks of him and Blake breaking up, unwilling to look at them anymore and unwilling to burn them to ashes, nostalgia too strong. “Congratulations to both of you. I’ll see you later.”

He waved, keys jingling against his palm as he strode through the door and rushed to his car.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


He’d woken up in the middle of the night, a cold sweat coating his body. Trembling fingers wound themselves in his hair as his stomach rolled, eyes burning with unshed tears.

His dream was an unhinged thing, fading like fog in the morning light, but the adrenaline still thrummed in his veins and hummed in his fingertips. And he felt alone, so desperately, achingly alone.

Jumping from bed, his pajama pants dragged on the ground as he sprinted from his bedroom and into the room he hadn’t entered in years.

It still smelled like paint.

There were a couple canvases left, blank and scattered around the room like a poor imitation of Keith’s life before Blake. He pulled one off the floor and shoved it haphazardly on the easel.

His palette was buried under several aprons and open, dried paint tubes. Pushing everything else to the floor, he grabbed the wooden palette and squeezed out a varying of colors, all dark and mixing together. With the swipe of a paintbrush, he forced all of his adrenaline onto the canvas, painting it black with the glowing outline of a man, gazing over his shoulder with one eye pleading with the audience.

He had a soft curved jaw and high cheekbones. Just the edges of his bangs were illuminated, brushing against his forehead and almost dipping into his gaze. Paint splattered Keith’s fingers as he carved the broad shoulder out of the darkness or when he detailed the way the blue dress shirt wrinkled against his collarbone, patterned tie loose around his neck.

Soft sunlight filtered through the large window when Keith finally felt like he’d exhaled. His palette and brush clattered to the floor as he took in the drying painting.

It was exhilarating to paint once again, to feel life singing at his fingertips.

But he couldn’t stop the way he’d analyzed the features, searching for that signature smile he could draw in his sleep or the light blue eyes that had looked nothing like Blake’s. He searched for companionship, for someone to prove Lance wrong -- that he wasn’t jealous, he wasn’t hopeless, that even if he’d been burned before, someone was still destined for him, no matter how vague the clues.

There was something so familiar about the berth of the shoulders and that tantalizing smirk -- things so familiar that he’d never painted before, not in a million beach scenes or portraits imitating Blake.

The curl of a memory whispered in his ear, “ _I mean the proof is all there_.”

And Keith could see the proof in the arch of his brow and the pleading nature to the too dark iris, like the desperation that had painted his features tonight when that mask cracked. How even though they were both happy for Shiro and Allura, a little hopelessness crept into their expressions.

Staggering a step back, he shook his head and searched the painting for something else, for another sign, for definitive proof.

But he could still feel the warmth of his skin, the casual brush of shoulders, and that heat settled low in his stomach, threatening to singe him. Hope brust alive in his chest, thundering and latching onto whatever details it could pull from this painting.

“No,” he breathed, stepping on the palette and feeling paint seep into the hem of his pajama pants.

All the hints were there. In the curl of his lips and the delicate nature to his features, the familiarity that tingled at Keith’s fingertips.

He couldn’t see anyone but Lance.

Turning on a heel, he slammed the door shut, unable to think past the new type of panic that thrummed through his veins and made his heartbeat echo in his ears.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


**Shiro (3:45PM)**  
_Hey Keith, haven’t heard from you since Friday_  
_Sorry I haven’t reached out any sooner_  
_Hope you’re doing alright :)_

**Shiro (4:55PM)**  
_Okay, I’ll admit it_  
_I reached out because Allura and I wanted to go dinner on Wednesday so we could introduce all of our friends and it would mean the world to me if you could make it_

**Shiro (11:49PM)**  
_Keith?_

**Keith (1:27AM)**  
_I think I have a problem_

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


“So, explain to me why Lance being your soulmate would be a problem?” Shiro sighed into the phone pressed against Keith’s ear.

His forehead was propped up by his palm, elbow digging uncomfortably into his kitchen table. The light from his laptop faded, hiding the commission he was drawing that somehow began to look like Lance -- eyes too blue, smile too wide, and shoulders definitively broad.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if he was my soulmate,” Keith breathed, throat constricting, “but it’s a problem if I think he is, and -- and it turns out he isn’t.”

Silence echoed through the phone, and Keith could barely hear Shiro breath. “Keith --”

“I know it been four years, but I just don’t think I can go through that again,” he whimpered, feeling a burn behind his eyes even as he squeezed them closed. “I can’t open up again only for it not to be real. I can’t, Shiro.”

Shiro sighed in a tone that was defeated, because there wasn’t much that he could argue right now. “Well maybe you can feel it out. You could ask to see Lance’s writing, and see if you fit the description.”

Keith kicked at the leg of his chair, remembering when he thought all of Blake’s songs had fit him perfectly too. But he swallowed the sarcastic comment that burned at the tip of his tongue, humming a response instead.

The silence stretched between them again, until Shiro cleared his throat and Keith could hear him stand up from that rickety, old desk chair.

“So about the dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Keith grumbled sagging backward in his seat, anxiety calmed slightly. “I’ll go.”

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


“Well, what did you expect me to wear?”

Shiro tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he failed to keep the irritation out of his tone. “Something nicer than your ripped jeans and a band tee, Keith.”

“I’m also wearing a flannel,” he grumbled, picking at the red flannel tied around his waist. His hair was pulled back into a casually-messy ponytail, showing off the black studs in both ears.

“Oh, sorry. A flannel makes it _so much_ more appropriate,” Shiro joked, glancing down at the GPS before making a sharp right.

Keith crossed his arms and gazed out the window, irritation curling his lips into a snarl. “You didn’t tell me there was a dress code or anything, so unless you want to turn around, you’re gonna have to deal with it.”

He didn’t want to detail how his heart was pounding from the moment he woke, thinking about how Lance was going to be at this dinner tonight -- the sight of him branded into his mind, carved out of wet paint on every canvas Keith had painted since Friday. How he’d stood in front of his closet with no idea what to wear, with one part of his mind screaming to impress Lance and the other denying any sort of anxious anticipation.

So he’d settled with something more casual with his usual black skinny jeans and his favorite band t-shirt.

The part of him that was determined to hide the hauntingly familiar canvases behind closed doors shouted that if Lance didn’t like the way he dressed, then he most definitely wasn’t his soulmate.

Picking at the fraying holes in his jeans, Keith whispered, “Are you embarrassed of me or something?”

“What?” The car almost skidded to a stop, Shiro’s gaze turning to him, wide eyed in the dim light of the dashboard. “No! Oh god, no, of course not!” With a huff, Shiro kept driving, hands sliding down the wheel until they settled at the bottom, steering with the slightest flick of his wrist. “I’m sorry. Your outfit is fine, really. I’m just --”

“An ass?” Keith interrupted, laughing at Shiro’s smirking smile.

“No, I’m just really nervous is all.”

Keith turned his gaze back to the road, seeing the restraunts roll by as they struggled to find a parking spot in the busiest part of the city.

Inhaling a ragged breath, Keith asked, “Nervous that Allura’s friends won’t like me or something?”

Because Keith knew -- knew he could be unapproachable or damn near hostile, that he was troubled and a pain to deal with, that he wasn’t someone easy to befriend. Shiro had never made him feel like a burden, but that didn’t stop the series of thoughts that flitted by like the lampposts outside his window.

“You’ve already won Lance over, so I’m not worried at all about you, Keith.” Shiro’s prosthetic tapped harshly against the steering wheel, creating dissonance with the soft tune of the radio. “I’m worried they won’t approve of me, since you know her father passed away and she only has Pop-pop Wimbleton and her uncle Coran. So meeting her friends is like a big deal, and --”

Keith’s laugh cut Shiro off, his face turned to watch Shiro’s features crumple with nerves. “There’s no way they wouldn’t approve of you.” Disbelief fluttered across his features as he began pulling into a parking spot. “I’ve already told you that anyone would be lucky to have a soulmate like you. So don’t worry.”

With that, Keith hopped out of the car and stretched his back with a satisfying crack.

Shiro’s smile was brighter as they walked to the restaurant.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


The restaurant was louder than Keith expected; colorful lights illuminated the walls while music blared from the live band. A crowd gathered around the bar in the center of the room, holding up drinks and swaying to the music.

He’d expected something quieter and fancier from Allura, but he shrugged his shoulders and followed Shiro past the throng of people to a table tucked into the corner of the restaurant.

Lance sat with a small scowl on his face, arms crossed and leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. Sitting next to him was Allura who also wore a disapproving look, but the second she saw Shiro, she straightened and jumped to her feet.

“Shiro!”

He chuckled under the thrum of the music as he hugged her tightly around the waist, her arms thrown around his neck.

An embarrassed blush crept up the back of Keith’s neck as he looked away from the happy couple, sliding into the seat next to Lance. The boy gave him a half-hearted smile, arms unfolding and dropping to his knees.

“Hi Keith,” a familiar voice called, and Keith glanced across the table to see Hunk, the bartender from the art gala. He wore a patterned, short-sleeved button down with some colorful bobby pins holding back his bangs rather than his signature headband.

“Oh, hey Hunk,” Keith mumbled, fingers fiddling with the silverware at his right. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

A harsh laugh drew Keith’s attention to the person sitting next to Hunk, chin propped on her elbow. She smirked, and Keith swore that he recognized her but couldn’t place from where. “Why? Because he doesn’t wander the gala halls with Lance and Allura?”

“No, no. I just --” Keith waved his hands in front of him, before dropping them back on the table at the smirk that curled her lips.

“Pidge,” Hunk growled under his breath, pushing at her shoulder.

She sent Hunk an unenthused glance, her hair brushing the bottoms of her ears and curling up at the ends. With her middle finger, she pushed up her glasses and introduced herself. “Pidge Holt. Nice to meet you, Keith.”

And it suddenly clicked why Pidge looked so damn familiar. She was Matt Holt’s younger sister, and Shiro had practically grown up with Matt, so Keith was very familiar with his antics and his tales of his genius little sister.

“Katie!” Shiro called, ruffling her hair as he slid into the seat next to Allura, hand immediately resting on her thigh as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her.

Scowling, Pidge fixed her hair by running fingers through it. “No one calls me that any more, Shiro.”

Shiro just chuckled in response before grabbing a menu and asking what everyone recommended.

Conversation flowed rather naturally from there, voices raised to talk over the din of the crowd and the blaring music of the band. When the server came over, Lance immediately ordered a margarita, unhappiness still settled into the lines of his face.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Leaning back in his chair, Keith huffed an irritated sigh as he dropped the conversation. He picked at the last of his food, which was admittedly delicious, but he was tired of constantly asking people to repeat themselves. Tilting to the side, Keith spoke loudly for Lance to hear, “Why’d Allura choose this place to eat? It’s so fucking loud.”

Lance mumbled a response, sinking lower into his chair and arms crossing.

Pidge smirked from across the table, elbowing Hunk in the side who wore a matching mischievous look.

“What was that, Keith?” Hunk asked.

“Yeah, did you ask why Allura chose this place?” Pidge followed, tone eerily similar as her gaze jumped from him to Lance.

A blush commandeer Keith’s features as he avoided Allura’s gaze, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I didn’t mean -- it’s just loud, is all.”

Lance’s hands slapped down on the table, cheeks a flush of embarrassment and gaze narrowed under low-set brows. “Allura just asked for a good place to eat! I didn’t know she wanted to have deep, intellectual conversations with everyone.” Huffing a sigh, Lance slumped back in his seat before reaching for his second margarita. He licked the salt off the rim and chugged the last few gulps.

Pushing himself up, he announced, “I’m going to the bar without you assholes.” But the frown on his face held a little humor, lips tilted in a partial smile as he stalked off from the table.

Keith watched him go, mesmerized by those broad shoulders and the way his hips swayed with the music. Remembering himself, Keith’s gaze darted to Shiro, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirking smile.

With a sigh, Keith stood up, determined to follow after Lance, at least to get away from Shiro’s not so subtle teasing.

“I’m gonna get a drink.” He pointed a thumb towards the bar and Lance who leaned against the counter with his credit card extended. Avoiding Shiro’s knowing smile, Keith turned and marched through the crowd to the edge of the bar.

He placed a gentle hand on Lance’s back, feeling the heat of his skin and the way his muscles tensed at the sudden touch. Glancing over his shoulder, Lance relaxed when he saw it was Keith standing beside him.

After making some room at the bar, Keith rested his elbows on the wood, looking at Lance under his lashes. His arched brows were low set and furrowing his forehead, and the normally pleasant curve to his lips was turned in a displeasing frown. No matter how everyone joked, it was clear that Lance was upset about how the night had turned out.

“Wanna do shots?” Keith asked, smiling broadly and resting his cheek against his hand.

Lance stiffened before turning his gaze completely to Keith, shifting his body so that they were facing each other. He couldn’t fight the butterflies that danced in stomach when Lance’s thigh accidentally brushed against his.

“You trying to get me drunk, Kogane?” Lance purred, but there was clearly humor in his tone and the exaggerated arch to his eyebrow.

Keith nodded to the bartender, who held up one finger to let him know that she was coming over. “You were already going to get drunk, Lance. I’m just joining you.”

Lance’s lips twitched like he was trying to fight the smile that contorted his face.

The bartender wandered over, leaning towards them to hear their order over the deafening noise. “Two tequila shots,” Lance called, holding up two fingers and passing her his credit card. He gave Keith a blinding smile that looked so familiar his heart constricted.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Keith woke with a pounding headache and nausea that lined his stomach. Muffling a groan in his pillow, he searched from his phone on his nightstand. Thumbing through his text messages, he remembered the night in flashes of music and colored lights.

After three shots and a mixed drink, Keith and Lance were giggling and leaning against the bar as they swayed to the music.

The rest of the group ended up joining them, crowding around the bar and ordering drink after drink. Keith didn’t expect Allura to be able to hold her liquor like she did, but she was drinking Shiro under the table, one arm wrapped around his waist and dancing slowly to the music.

“Wanna dance?” Lance had yelled over the chorus of the band, one hand lingering on Keith’s hip, fingers warm and barely there against his skin.

He ignored the part of him that was terrified to open up again, to allow someone so close to his heart only for fate to determine he wasn’t worthy.

So yeah, maybe he was jealous of all the happy soulmates, just like Lance had said last week.

Grabbing Lance’s hand, he pulled them deep into the crowd of dancers, close to the edge of the stage. The drums were like an artificial heartbeat in his chest, pounding to the beat of the music and drawing him deeper into its depths.

And then there were the flashes of Lance’s warm skin against his, his blinding smile, and the way he guided Keith’s hips with a confidence Keith didn’t have, even when drunk. He remembered tipping his head back with laughter and meeting Lance’s gaze that glittered with mirth.

Grinning wildly into his pillow, Keith’s fingers still hummed with the energy from last night, and although his body protested, he pulled himself from bed. With a cup of coffee in hand, he wandered into his paint room and placed a large canvas onto the easel.

With trembling fingertips, he began to paint the exhilaration that swept him up last night. The colored lights and the feeling of warm skin against his. The unbridled joy that sung through his veins and thudded with each beat of the drum.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Somehow every painting embodied Lance in every sense of the word. But Keith wasn’t sure if that was just wishful thinking as the memory of Blake hung over him like swirling storm clouds.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


“Shiro said you’re a writer,” Keith commented, turning to face Lance who sat next to him on the couch. They were at a small get-together at Allura house, because she was determined for everyone to actually get to know each other rather than just dancing drunkenly to a band.

He swirled the drink in his hands, watching the way ice cubes collided with the sides of the glass.

“Yeah,” Lance blushed, one hand tracing an unfamiliar pattern on his knee. “I’m a journalist actually. But I do write some short stories on the side.”

Turning to face Lance, Keith pulled his leg up on the couch and pressed his shoulder into the cushions. Taking a sip from his drink, he continued, “Oh, what are your short stories about?”

Lance seemed almost surprised that Keith would ask such a question. Leaning more fully against the couch, Lance turned his head to face Keith, expression open and deceptively fragile.

“Well, I really like sci-fi and fantasy,” and as he spoke, he twirled his fingers in front of him as if he was articulating the plot with the movements. His eyes glittered the exact shade of Keith’s paintings as he continued, obviously so passionate about his writing. “My favorite piece would have to be this story that’s kind of inspired by Firefly, if you’ve ever seen that. But yeah, it’s like a Western in space.”

In a moment, Lance seemed to think he’d talked too much, cutting himself off and rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That’s sounds awesome,” Keith said, watching as Lance’s eyes snapped to him, confusion and surprise swirling in those irises. With a harsh swallow, Keith continued with the question he’d been wanting to ask, “I would love to read it, if that’s okay.”

He glanced back down at his drink, afraid of the look he’d seen on Lance’s features. But he couldn’t fight his curiosity as his gaze darted up from under his lashes. Lance’s lips were parted before he shook his head and yanked out his phone, typing against the screen.

“If you give me your email, I can send you a PDF of the anthology,” he began, voice quiet as if he didn’t want to rest of the party overhear.

Leaning forward, Keith glanced at Lance’s phone screen as he attached the document to the blank email. “Oh, if it’s on amazon, I can just by the e-book.”

“What?” Lance choked out, face going a little bit pale as he gripped the phone harder in his hands. Keith merely raised an eyebrow in response as Lance cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks. But my friends don’t actually need to _buy_ my anthology.”

Shrugging, Keith brought his drink up to his lip to take a shallow sip. “Well since I’m your friend, I want to support you, Lance. I can’t even tell you the amount of times Shiro’s commissioned me.” Rolling his eyes, he glanced across the room at Shiro and Allura standing around the dining table.

It was so clear that they were soulmates just in the way they looked at each other, and Keith couldn’t help but smile.

Turning back to Lance, Keith plucked the phone from his hands and typed in his number. Fighting the flush that dusted his cheeks, Keith handed the phone back.

“This way you can text me with the title,” he mumbled, silencing himself with a large gulp of his drink.

“Thanks,” Lance mumbled, eyes cast down on his phone and cheeks darkened with blush.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


The next painting Keith created captured the same reverence Shiro had when he looked at Allura, but it was crafted on Lance’s face: his eyebrows were slightly furrowed with parted lips and imploring eyes as a blush dusted his cheeks.

He signed the piece and set it against the wall at that was slowly filling with portraits of Lance and those vivid beach scenes.

But he closed the door and fought to ignore all of the signs as he buried himself on the couch and opened Lance’s anthology, chuckling to himself as he thumbed through the pages.

He ignored the part of him that searched every line and every character trait for something that might describe him. But every time he found something that may have, he shook his head and told himself to stop daydreaming.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Their little parties at Allura’s place became a weekly thing, replacing Lance and Allura’s long walks through the art gala. And as Keith began to open up to the group, it was like he was seeing in vibrant color for the first time since Blake.

They played the most ridiculous games, laughed over jokes, and enjoyed Hunk’s wonderfully-prepared food.

It was all so easy. That, in of itself, should have been Keith’s first clue, because nothing for him was ever easy.

It was several months after Shiro and Allura met when it all suddenly collapsed around him. And it all started with him spilling his drink down his shirt.

“Party foul,” Pidge chuckled while handing him a wad of paper towels.

Cursing under his breath, he dabbed at the red stain that soaked into his white shirt. With a huff, he set his empty cup on the table and just shook his head in exasperation.

“I think Lance has some spare clothes in the guest bedroom,” Allura said, one finger tapping against her chin in thought.

“Yeah,” Lance confirmed, leaning deeper into the sofa with a playful smirk on his face. “As long as Keith doesn’t spill another drink on them, he can wear them.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith held the hem of his shirt to keep it from sticking to his skin. “Ha, ha, very funny.”

But Lance cracked a wide smile that melted any irritation Keith had.

“It’s the door just past the bathroom.” Allura pointed down the hallway, and Keith nodded in response, following her directions to her guest bedroom.

As he opened the door into the conservative room with a large bed and a sliding closet opposite it, he didn’t want to think how Allura afforded such a large place so close to the middle of the city.

He pulled his shirt off and grabbed a simple blue t-shirt from the closet and threw it on. The arms were a little too small and the length was evidently too long, swaying around the bottom of his butt. But at least it was dry.

As he turned to exit the room, he caught sight a painting hanging next to the door. His stained shirt dropped from his grasp, splattering on the floor with a wet thud.

The painting was so familiar, because it was one of the last ones he’d painted before he’d met Blake. It was a close up of someone looking directly at the audience. Their skin was painted a varying of colors in bold brush strokes, while their eyes shown a vibrant blue, distinct in the collage of hues.

Four years ago, he was so lovestruck that he’d seen Blake in every stroke of the brush. But now all he could see were Lance’s high cheekbones and the determined set to his curved jaw. And every trait that he’d thought belonged to Blake was twisted with another swipe of paint to depict Lance.

Stuttering forwards, he traced a hand over his signature at the bottom corner, as if feeling the raised paint would make this feel all the more real.

Lightheadedness overwhelmed him as he walked out of the room, only feeling his feet slap against the floor. When he stepped into the living room, Hunk was just finishing a story with a large smile on his face as Pidge and Lance leaned against each other for support, laughter crippling them.

Shiro’s gaze found Keith immediately, humor fading in an instant at the shock that pulled at Keith’s features.

Glancing over the back of the couch, Lane snorted a laugh at the sight of Keith in the too large shirt. “Looks good on you, Keith.”

But Keith ignored the jeering remark, turning his eyes on Allura, eyebrows furrowed and gaze narrowed. His voice failed him at first, throat warbling out a wheezing sigh instead.

“The painting,” he mumbled, pointing at thumb back towards the guest bedroom.

Tilting her head to the side, Allura considered his question before she gasped in recognition and laughed. “Yes, yes. Lance’s mysterious soulmate painting,” she giggled as he gaze darted to Lance. “Do you remember that?”

“How could I forget,” Lance groaned, leaning back into the couch. Striding forward, Keith rounded the couch so he would watch the way emotions filtered across the writer’s features as he spoke. “So like four years ago, Allura found this piece on an anonymous auction and bought it without telling me. She thought it looked so much like me that it must be by my soulmate. But of course the seller wouldn’t answer our emails, so it’s been a mystery.”

“I couldn’t even find anything like it online,” Pidge shrugged, leaning her head against Lance’s shoulder.

Keith’s words died on his tongue, heart thundering in his ears and pounding against his chest like the drums from their night out. With his eyes fixated on Lance and the gentle smile that curved his lips, Keith whispered like an exhale, “It’s mine.”

Lance waved a hand in Keith’s direction. “Yeah, you can take if from Allura. I can’t even keep it in my apartment, because it’s just depressing.” Pidge squeezed Lance’s hand and gave him a reassuring smile.

But Shiro’s gaze narrowed on Keith, before his lips parted and he sat up straighter.

“Wait, Keith,” Shiro choked out, hands dropping from Allura as he stood. “Are you serious?”

“It’s mine,” Keith nodded in response as his consciousness seemed to cascade back into his body. And suddenly he felt everything: the sweat clinging to his palms, the itch of the shirt against his biceps, the tightness of his belt againsts waist, and the way his breaths dragged against his dry throat. It was all too much.

He met Shiro’s gaze, watching as his best friend wavered before him, blurring as tears filled his eyes. “But I was so sure before, Shiro. How --” but the tightness to his throat cut him off. Turning on the ball of his foot, he faced away from the group, breaths stuttering in his chest and eyes squeezed shut to fight off the tears.

“Wait,” Lance breathed, voice high pitched with the constriction of his throat. “Are you saying that you’re the artist? That’s really your painting?” Lance’s voice had started off as a tentative whisper and ended in a raging shriek. “And you just sold it off without even looking for me? Even after all these years?!”

A harsh hand pulled him to the side so he could see the hurt displayed so plainly on Lance’s features, the furrow to his brow and the way the flush of anger and tears made the blue of his eyes practically glow.

His vision wavered as the tears he’d been fighting finally dropped onto his cheeks.

Pulling out of Lance’s too warm grip, Keith swallowed the bile that tickled at the back of his throat.

“Why?!” Lance yelled, hands tensing by his sides, and Shiro stepped forward, one hand extended towards Lance as if to calm him down. Lance just slapped it away, eyes turning ferociously back to Keith and pinning him in place. “I’ve published four anthologies in the last four years just looking for you. And you come into my life and tell me you gave up on us before we even met, huh? Why, Keith? Why!?”

And the excuse bubbled from his lips as his shoulders sagged with defeat. “Because I’ve been wrong before.”

“What’s that --”

“That’s enough!” Shiro cut off Lance, stepping in front of Keith and wrapping a protective arm around Keith’s neck. Allura quickly appeared behind Lance, placing a calming hand on his shoulder, but he just shook her off.

Keith buried his face into Shiro’s shirt, winding fingers into the fabric and allowing it to muffle his sobs.

“Both of you obviously need time to calm down, so you can talk later.” His voice was stern, leaving no room for negotiation.

Lance tsked, fists still clenched in his hands as he turned his face away. Both Hunk and Pidge had risen from their seats, hovering close to Lance as if ready to catch him if he fell apart.

Shiro cleared his throat, fingers tightening against Keith’s shoulder and tugging him a little closer. “I’ll take Keith home now.”

Hunk handed Shiro a bundle of his and Keith’s things before they walked out the door. Shiro stood behind him, ushering him out the front door. But Keith turned around, looking at the hunch of Lance’s shoulders and the way they trembled with each ragged breath.

“I’m so sorry, Lance.”

“Just go. Please.”

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


**Keith (3:42AM)**  
_It’s been almost a week, but I’m afraid of reaching out_  
_You saw how upset he was_

**Keith (3:58AM)**  
_I don’t want to make him more upset_  
_Because you heard him, Shiro_  
_He’s been looking for me and doing everything he could_  
_And here I am, having sold all of my paintings and refusing to acknowledge the signs_

**Keith (4:03AM)**  
_Like what am I supposed to say?_

**Keith (4:05AM)**  
_Hey Lance, sorry I wasn’t trying to find you. I’m still a little fucked up from when I dated someone who I thought was my soulmate -- obviously he wasn’t. So I sold all of my paintings and pretended like I wasn’t jealous of everyone living happily with their loved ones. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to find you, I was just terrified of thinking someone was my soulmate, only for them to toss me aside again._

**Keith (4:12AM)**  
_Like that just sounds so fucked up, Shiro_

**Keith (4:59AM)**  
_What am I supposed to do?_

**Shiro (8:49AM)**  
_Keith, honestly please just talk to him_  
_I’m sure he’ll understand if you explain it to him, okay?_

**Keith (10:35AM)**  
_Can’t you just ask Allura if he still hates me or not_

**Shiro (10:53AM)**  
_No_

**Keith (10:55AM)**  
_But Shirooooooo_  
_I’m suffering_

**Shiro (10:59AM)**  
_Then end your suffering and text him, Keith_

**Keith (11:04AM)**  
_I hate you_

**Shiro (11:15AM)**  
_Love you too_

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


**Keith (1:43PM)**  
_Hey Lance, I was wondering if you were free to talk maybe today or tomorrow_

Keith flopped backward onto his couch, pressing his forearm across his eyes and sighing. His heart was racing, but he knew Shiro was right -- he needed to talk to Lance and tell him everything.

Holding his phone up, he gazed at the black screen and begged for it to vibrate.

After a half an hour, he was flipping through youtube videos with the attention span of less than two minutes as his gaze kept falling on his phone.

When his phone finally buzzed, he picked it up with trembling fingers and read the messages.

**Lance (2:55PM)**  
_I’m free tonight after 8_  
_Where do you wanna meet?_

Relief washed over him like a wave, but his lungs still ached from the anxiety that had taken root in his chest.

**Keith (3:01PM)**  
_Is my place cool? That way you could see more of my paintings_  
_If you wanted to that is_

**Lance (3:03PM)**  
_Cool_  
_See you at 8 then_

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Anxiety sung in his fingers and the only way to quiet it was to clean his apartment, reaching deep crevices that he hadn’t cleaned since he’d moved in.

By 6:30 his apartment was practically sparklingly, and the only thing Keith had left to do was to over think his outfit and maybe make some food. But was food too much like a date? Or would it be rude not to have something?

Keith grunted and collapsed backward onto his bed and prayed for strength.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


At 8:05, there was a sharp knock at his door, and Keith jumped from his seat at the kitchen table, palms suddenly sweaty.

Swallowing harshly, he braced himself and attempted to quiet his thundering heart, to no avail.

He pulled open the door to the sight of Lance: hip cocked with his bottom lip clutched between his teeth, eyes tracing his phone. He was wearing a pair of light-wash jeans and a baseball tee with blue sleeves that brought out the stunning quality of his eyes.

Lance looked up, and Keith was pinned by that gaze. “Hi,” Lance mumbled, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

“Uh, hi.”

Shaking his head, Keith stepped to the side and ushered for Lance to come in.

“Should I take my shoes off?” Lance asked, leaning his book bag against the small shoe rack by the door.

“If -- if you want,” Keith cleared his throat and shut the door behind Lance, locking it without meeting the other boy’s gaze.

Lance stretched his hands over his head, and there was a more relaxed set to his shoulders than Keith expected. He’d anticipated the same kind of hurt fury that had encompassed Lance last week. But all that seemed to linger was exhaustion.

Silence was like a living thing in the air, tensing in the space between them and winding through Keith’s lungs.

Running a hand through his hair, Lance mumbled, “Where’re your paintings?”

“Oh,” Keith breathed, limbs marching him towards the closed door without thought. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess in here.”

But Lance ignored him, stepping past the threshold and into the room.

Paint was smeared and splattered on the walls and the linoleum flooring. The rickety easel sat in the middle of the room, stool perched behind it. Beside it sat a table holding paints, brushes, and Keith’s rarely used aprons.

Lance wasn’t drawn to the mess, but rather the canvases that lined the walls, sometimes stacked two deep. His fingers traced the edges and peered at the brushstrokes with reverent fingers.

Keith chewed on his bottom lip, eyes tracing the painting that still sat in the easel rather that watching Lance’s rapt expression. It was half finished with blurry outlines and no shading, but it was evident that it was a kitchen, small and homey, with a window that peered out onto the beach.

“When did you start painting all these?” Lance questioned without turning to look at Keith. Crouching by a painting, he seemed to analyze all the features in the portrait as he waited for Keith’s answer.

But Keith couldn’t find the words. Because how could he try to explain that after seeing Shiro and Allura find each other, he woke in a panic, a forgotten dream making him feel so alone in this world. And the only thing to comfort him in the late hours of the night was the thought that his soulmate that might still be out there.

“You said you didn’t have any paintings when Allura asked if you wanted to be part of the gala,” Lance mumbled, rising to his feet and dusting off his knees. Glancing over his shoulder, Keith met Lance’s gaze and saw the way exhaustion deepened the bags under his eyes. “Or was that a lie too?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Keith mumbled, shrinking from Lance’s glare and not speaking again until Lance went back to looking at the paintings. “I starting painting again on the night Shiro and Allura met.”

Lance merely hummed in response, but he was distracted by the half-finished work on the easel. His expression was open and his lips were parted as he reached forward to touch the painting. Before his fingertips could touch, he pulled back and pivoted to pin Keith with his gaze.

“So about four months ago?” Lance questioned with his tone tight.

Keith shrugged, crossing his arms and refusing to meet Lance’s imploring gaze. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you didn’t think of mentioning any of _this_ ,” Lance motioned at the entire room behind him, brimming with portraits that seemed to capture his very essence, “to me?”

Anger and indignation ignited in his stomach, roaring in defiance and cradling his nostalgic heart. Curling his fingers into his biceps, Keith bit his tongue to stop the spitting retort from snapping off his lips and cutting into Lance.

Sighing harshly and forcing his hands to relax against his muscles, he turned and walked out of the painting room. “I made some frozen pizza, so let’s --”

“Keith,” Lance began, stepping forward and reaching for him. But the expression on his face must have changed Lance’s mind, hand dropping back to his side.

“Just,” Keith exhaled, allowing himself to loosen his grip on the loss and rejection that carved a home in his heart, “give me a minute to explain. Okay?”

Lance nodded and didn’t say a word as he followed Keith into the kitchen.

They made stilted conversation as Keith cut the pizza and put some slices on a plate for each of them.

After sprinkling his pizza with some red pepper flakes, Keith took a bite, chewing slowly to think over his thoughts. He avoided looking in Lance’s direction, knowing the expression that would be contorting his features: the impatience, the worry, and the hurt. And he couldn’t bear to see all that there.

“I thought I met my soulmate in college,” Keith began as he placed his pizza back on his plate, suddenly not very hungry. “We dated for about ten months, and I was head over heels in love.” His throat constricted as he struggled to continue, “But then he told me he found his real soulmate, and that all his songs finally made complete sense. Our clues didn’t exactly match up; he’d never even seen the ocean and that was all I seemed to be able to paint,” Keith grumbled as he motioned over his shoulder to the painting room.

Shaking his head slightly, Keith glanced at the ceiling and fought off the burning sensation that lodged itself in his throat. “But I was so fucking in love that I ignored all the mismatching signs just so I could be with him.”

He couldn’t fight the temptation to look at Lance’s expression, expecting to see something along the lines of resignation or pity. What he saw was empathy and a willingness to understand.

With a sharp sigh, he let the feeling of loss and heartbreak roll over him until his throat relaxed. “So I sold all of my paintings after that and was determined to just forget about the whole thing, because maybe I was just meant to be alone.”

His gaze jumped to Lance, unable to fight the tender smile that pulled at his lips. “But then I met you, and I wanted to paint again after all these years. And you were somehow in everything I painted.”

He analyzed the blue of those eyes and the delicate arch of his eyebrows that furrowed his forehead. He knew those features after painting them in a sleep-induced haze or a panic-driven storm for four months.

He swallowed the tightness of his throat, the one that threatened to suffocate him with fears and senseless anxieties. Pushing past all his trepidations, he continued, fists curling against the kitchen counter, “But I was just so fucking scared --”

“Keith --”

“That maybe you weren’t my soulmate, and this was some cruel joke from the universe or something! And then after reading your anthologies and not being able to see myself in any of the characters, I just thought that maybe I was wrong again.”

Keith hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes closed until he forcibly focused his gaze on Lance. He was trembling, standing so stockstill against the countertops that Keith thought he could be a sculpture, crafted from fear and heartbreak. Nothing like Keith’s hunched form, shoulders curled in and chin dipped to his chest.

Slowly, he straightened his shoulders and stood taller as he watched Lance fumble for words.

“I thought that you didn’t want _me_ as a soulmate,” Lance admitted in a whisper, eyes downcast and hands trembling. “That even though I’d been looking for you all these years that maybe I wasn’t good enough.”

Horror like a bolt of lightning shot through him -- horror that he’d caused his soulmate such grief, that he’d painted that twisted expression on Lance’s features.

Stepping forward, Keith reached out for Lance -- to what? To hold him, to comfort him, or reassure him that just the thought of Lance brought him solace in these long nights with nothing but the lingering taste of nightmares and his paints.

“Lance, no --” was all he mumbled before Lance cut him off, lips warped into a snarl.

“Well, what did you expect me to think?” Lance snapped, one hand slashing the air before him while the other curled so tightly against the countertop that it trembled. “I mean you didn’t try to find me when you sold all those paintings --”

“I told you that --”

Keith struggled to explain, cutting Lance off only to be cut off himself.

“And then you walk out of Allura’s bedroom like you’ve seen a ghost, only to admit that you’re my soulmate?”

Lance wasn’t seeing him, eyes wide and glossy as his hands fluttered before him. It was like the confident persona that followed him everywhere was beginning to crack, a mask Keith wasn’t even aware that Lance wore.

And it was in those fractured features that Keith saw the open expression that he’d painted in the depths of the night and hidden in the far corner of his room. It was almost torturous to carve out his soulmate of paint, expression pained and vulnerable, tears like lapis lazuli carving rivers down his cheeks.

He couldn’t stand to see that look, so identical to the one he painted, stain Lance’s features. Taking a step forward, he watched as Lance’s gaze finally focused on him, eyes watery and voice wavering.

“I’m sorry if I’m not good enough for --”

Keith took a handful of Lance’s shirt and dragged him down for a blistering kiss that was chaste but somehow lightning in his veins. Their lips pressed together at an awkward ankle and their noses crushed together, but Keith kept his eyes squeezed closed and his fists tight until Lance relaxed against him.

Pulling back slightly, Keith relaxed his fists, pressing his palms against Lance’s warm, thundering chest.

Glancing up, Keith could see some spark in Lance’s half-lidded eyes, so close that they almost blurred together. He could feel each soft puff of Lance’s breath against his lips as a blush commandeered his cheeks. The thunder of Lance’s heartbeat seemed to radiate down his arms, settling in his chest and releasing butterflies in a tremulous storm in his stomach.

Embarrassment like a deceptive undertow dragged him beneath the waves and threatened to drown him as seafoam gathered in his hair.

He was about to step back when Lance’s hand came to rest on his hip bone, warm fingertips tracing the hem of his shirt with the same casual reverance he’d touched Keith’s paintings.

“Kissing to shut me up?” Lance joked as his fingers curled a little into Keith’s waist. Keith could hear bravado in his voice, the smile a little forced and insecurities not willed away by a single kiss. “I’ll have you know all I do is talk so this might become a common occurrence if --”

Keith tilted his chin up and leaned in, cutting Lance off before their lips even met. He felt Lance’s sudden intake of breath through his fingers as he closed the distance between them in a softer kiss, one asking for permission and pleading for forgiveness.

Lance’s hand tightened on Keith’s hip as his other cupped Keith’s cheek, palm warm and fingers gentle against his jaw.

Their lips slotted together and all the awkwardness of their first kiss vanished as Lance took the lead.

With an exhale, they separated, foreheads touching and eyes peacefully closed.

“You’re more than enough, Lance.” Keith breathed, hands winding around his neck as if to hold him close in case he fell apart. “I was only afraid that my soulmate _wasn’t_ you.”

Keith heard Lance’s shaky breath as he pulled Keith against his chest, for comfort or reassurance or to decipher the rabid beat of his heart.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Conversation flowed rather naturally from there, only paused by long looks and quiet questions.

They sat on the couch, pizza crusts gathering on Keith’s plate on the coffee table -- much to Lance’s disapproval. Keith sat on one end of the couch while Lance sat on the other, their legs intertwined as they spoke, the TV a soft hum in the background.

“When did you make your first painting?” Lance asked, hands clasped behind his head as he watched Keith fumble with the question.

Keith settled back into the couch cushions, memorizing the openness of Lance’s features, holding none of that fracture vulnerability from earlier. Running his foot down the length of Lance’s thigh, he sighed and recounted his earliest memory of painting, “I don’t know, maybe six? I’d been drawing way before that with anything I could find around the house. One time my dad was so pissed because I’d colored a whole landscape on his paycheck.” Keith chuckled and smiled at the memory, a rose-colored light in his mind. “But my first painting was for some art class in elementary school.”

Lance’s expression was something so soft and tender, that the Keith could only compare it to the way Blake had looked at him -- but with Lance, everything was so much _more_. The laughter, the happiness that filled him like sunlight, and even the sadness was like an anchor tied to his foot, dragging him beneath frigid waters.

“Oh, and I bet it was some kind of masterpiece. Like the whole school praised your for being a prodigy or something,” Lance laughed, waving one hand like the situation he described was outlandish and hilarious.

Nodding a response, Keith fought the blush that tinted his cheeks and heated the back of his neck.

Lance laugh cut off as his gaze left the TV to see Keith’s flush of embarrassment. “Oh my god, are you serious? You’re some kind of painting prodigy?” As Lance sat up suddenly, Keith’s legs bent at an awkward ankle while Lance crawled over the couch and began demanding things. “You have to have a picture or something! I _need_ to see this first painting.”

Keith opened his lips, anything to deny that he had a photo stashed somewhere in his room or buried in his text messages with Shiro, but Lance cut him off before he could say anything.

“If you try to deny it, I’ll know you’re lying, Keith. Prodigy or not, we all keep our old shit,” Lance grumbled, one hand pressed against Keith’s shoulder and pinning him to the couch.

Raising an eyebrow in question, Keith watched the boy above him blush six shades of scarlet and fumble with his words. “This isn’t about me right now, so stop trying to divert the conversation.”

With a muffled laugh, Keith relented, pulling out his phone and thumbing through his pictures to Shiro.

Lance’s weight was off him in a second, snuggling in next to him, pushing his body in the crack between the cushions and the back of the couch. Tensing at the sudden closeness, Keith’s fingers stilled on his phone as Lance wound an arm around his stomach. Lance’s other hand propped up his head against the arm of the couch, and Keith could feel each soft exhale against his cheek.

“Keith?” Lance whispered, the hand around Keith’s waist retracting as if he’d realized he’d maybe taken it a step too far.

But Keith shook off the anxiety that weighed on him like a layer of snow, freezing the breath inside his lungs like shards of ice.

This was Lance, he reassured himself. His soulmate.

But the treacherous part of him that always seemed to be right, pessimistic and cooing each time his predictions came true, whispered that maybe Keith was wrong again -- Lance wasn’t his soulmate, and Keith was just asking to get hurt again.

Gritting his teeth, Keith swallowed the fear that raced around his heart and allowed his shoulders to relax. One hand tugged Lance’s arm back around his stomach, relishing in the warmth and comfort of his touch.

Even if Lance wasn’t his soulmate, Keith was too far gone, dragged so deep beneath the waves of Lance’s eyes that he would drown before breaking the surface again.

“Yeah, sorry,” Keith mumbled, his fingers tightening around his phone.

Lance sat up a little next to him, pinning him with a serious gaze. “I’m serious when I say that we can take this slow. If this is too much for you, let me know and I won’t hesitate to back off, okay?” His eyes were imploring, begging for Keith to understand that the last thing he wanted was to make Keith uncomfortable.

“Of course,” Keith mumbled, nodding and glancing anywhere but Lance’s intense gaze. “It’s just hard. I keep thinking that I’m wrong, and you’ll leave the second you find your real soulmate.”

_Again. Just like Blake._

Lance pressed a hand against Keith’s cheek, drawing his attention back to those stunning eyes, a color Keith wound into every painting.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lance declared, eyes sparking and mouth set in a firm line.

Keith nodded and ignored the small part of him that whispered back sarcastically.

“Now,” Lance smiled, settling back in against Keith but propping his other hand on his hip rather than winding it around Keith’s waist, “let’s see this prodigy painting of yours.” There was a smile in his voice as Keith shook his head, enamored with the feel of Lance pressed against him.

And he promised himself that this time it would last.

  


°˖✧~✿~✧˖°

  


Everything with Lance had been slower.

Keith didn’t mean to compare his two relationships, just the way he’d thrown himself into Blake without ever checking for a safety net or something to keep him from crashing back to reality, was so different from everything with Lance.

He was slower to open up and show Lance all the parts that still ached, all the barely healed wounds and punctures to his fragile heart. And Lance had always been accepting, curling around Keith in the middle of the night and whispering reassurances when he woke in a cold sweat with nightmares of abandonment on his tongue.

Lance was loud and exuberant and so colorful that Keith wasn’t sure how he’d ever imagined Blake encompassed all of the hues in his paintings.

Everything was slower, each kiss and each step forward, constantly checking and asking for consent until they both fell over themselves in the waves of love that rocked them to sleep.

The first night they made love was exhilarating and everything Keith imagined. Lance had been so passionate, whispering sweet words into Keith’s ear the entire time, mumbling in Spanish and making Keith feel so loved. Slow and careful at all the right times, while passionate and blinding at others.

It was everything Keith imagined as they laid beside each other, Lance tracing patterns on Keith’s back as sweat slowly dried against their heated skin. They whispered secrets to each other and giggled into the pillows. And Keith never thought he would become this comfortable with someone else. But here Lance was, wrapping him in his arms and curling his bare body around Keith’s like this vulnerability didn’t scare him, or the way that his heart embraced it with vigor and desire, that it had been starved of this kind of love for far too long.

Everything had been slower than it was with Blake. But that made everything perfect.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
> 
> Comments and Kudos are my life blood!!
> 
> You can also come scream at me on my [tumblr](https://voltronhastakenovermylife.tumblr.com)!!


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